


The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face

by rosie_berber



Series: The Stuff Great Ships are Made Of [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angels Are Watching Over You, Castiel and Dean Winchester Have a Profound Bond, Castiel's Handprint, Episode: s04e01 Lazarus Rising, Falling In Love, Fluff, Heaven, Hell, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Metafiction, Profound Bond, Raised You From Perdition, Soulmates, some angst too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-14 03:34:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7997068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosie_berber/pseuds/rosie_berber
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What was behind the plan to save Dean from hell? Why was Castiel the one leading the charge? What is revealed to Castiel about himself in the process of learning why Dean is worth raising from Perdition?</p><p>Or, the fic in which the author lets go of all inhibitions she has about the tired soulmates trope. Because she truly believes these two to fit the bill.</p><p>The first in a series of metafictions on that profound bond we all know and love. Emphasis on the fiction part, although I do believe the depths of the feelings in these to be what canon gets at.</p><p>I have a <a href="http://rosie-berber.tumblr.com/">tumblr</a> and I don't know how to use it!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pinkmink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pinkmink/gifts).



_“He stepped down, trying not to look long at her, as if she were the sun, yet he saw her, like the sun, even without looking.”_

_—Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina_

 

The angel stares at the cloudless sky, mesmerized by the tail of a kite dancing in the wind, a man in a vibrant red sweater pulling at the string. The only sound in this little piece of heaven is of that tethered toy, fluttering in the breeze. The scene is simple, free of any malaise, the sweet scent of pine and lilac and freshly cut grass filling the air. On this eternal Tuesday afternoon, Castiel watches, wholly content.

 

It is a peace that proves to be short-lived. For the whispers of the wind are soon hushed, overtaken by hundreds of voices in dischord. The soft drone of the bumblebees rendered mute by the frequencies of angelic radio. Beings who spent eons as silent witnesses of humankind buzzing at the news, chattering like over eager teenagers swapping gossip. A single, sturdy voice penetrates the cacophony, calling for convergence. A voice that, try as he might, Castiel can’t tune out; it booms over the quiet calm of the garden. With a sigh, he reluctantly exchanges rich blues and greens, colours that exuded life, for sterile white.

 

The conference room is filled to the brim with multidimensional wavelengths of celestial intent. The two self-appointed yet uncontested leaders take centerstage, clearly poised to speechify. Raphael is the first to speak, everyone else falling silent at his command.

 

“Brothers and sisters. For centuries now, our kind have managed to steer clear of human affairs. To let the hairless apes come into their own, save a few necessary pushes in one direction or another, now and again. Non-interventionism has proven its merit for us - their conflicts hardly deserving of our involvement. After all, we are not so petty as those from Olympus and Asgard.”

 

A chorus of stiff laughs permeates the room, a satisfied smirk finding itself on one archangel’s face as the other takes his turn to speak.

 

“However, the long foretold events have been put into motion,” Michael declares humorlessly, ceasing the snickering of the seraphims. “The righteous man has found himself within the pit. We all know what is to follow if he is broken. We are suggesting a momentary departure from inaction. For to rescue this man is to maintain the status quo, to preserve heaven, to keep Lucifer locked in his cage. It will not be a mission without risks. Blood will be shed. But as your leaders, we believe this sacrifice to be necessary.”

 

A look of cold calculation on Raphael’s face matches Michael’s sternness. “Lucifer escaping - it would be an unmitigated disaster. But we do not wish to make such a drastic decision on your behalf. If you disagree, please speak now, or forever silence your discontent.” Looks of terror - both at the prospect of the fallen archangel returning to heaven and at being selected to keep him in his place - are exchanged amongst the lesser ranks of angels. But not a single being is bold enough to let that fear transform to dissent.

 

Michael, for perhaps the first time since his father had left him unwittingly in charge of his younger siblings, seems pleased. The harshness that usually adorned his face replaced by a somewhat softer expression as he begins to give his first order of this new war. “Training will need to begin soon. Time is of the essence. Those with the necessary skills will be conscripted. You have our gratitude, brothers and sisters, for your support. The operation to save Dean Winchester will commence shortly. You are dismiss--”. The archangel is unable to finish his last word, interrupted by a raised hand. The hand belongs to Castiel, possessed by what he hopes is God’s will but knows is more likely a rash and most certainly fatal impulse.

 

“Yes?” Michael says, less in a spirit of inquiry than annoyance as his eyes lock on the arm that had the audacity to extend itself upright.

 

“I - I volunteer.”

 

\-----

 

No sooner has the meeting ended than Michael is equipped with a ledger in hand. He evaluates the angels at his disposal for the mission, selecting those he deems fit for battle. They depart alongside Castiel for earth, to obtain suitable vessels for war. To act beyond heaven’s gates required flesh and blood.

 

“That was … unanticipated,” Michael states, rarely surprised by the actions of his brethren, bred to be predictable. “Castiel has always been a faithful follower, but I had not expected him to freely offer his participation. It was honorable of him to do so. That may be an asset for us - the others, they might find it reassuring.”

 

“I agree - things are falling into place even better than expected. But we still must heed caution,” Raphael implores. “Our plan - it must unfold piece by piece. The rest of them … they cannot yet understand why we must capitalize on this opportunity. The unknown has a way of stirring up mutinous feelings, even amongst the most loyal. Castiel - he will play a crucial role. But surely you still agree: Dean’s part in the plan - it is critical that we and we alone know of the man’s true nature?”

 

The general acquiesces just as his recruits begin to reconvene - embodied and suited in fifty shades of starched gray. Castiel was relieved he was able to obtain a sturdy, strong vessel with relative ease, one he hoped would survive a trip to hell and back. The man’s armour was strange though - the last warrior Castiel had been within was clad in iron and leather, not wool and cotton. He is a blur of trenchcoat as he moves steadily towards Michael, already beginning to divulge the details of their reconnaissance on the demon dimension. Castiel quickly deduced that Michael was spearheading the _where_ and _how_ of the mission, ever the master strategist.

 

But, as it turned out, that room was not meant for Castiel. For he no sooner passes the glass door than he is stopped by Raphael, who instead guides him towards a small courtyard. Like Michael, he too was still in his true form, energy unrestrained by skin or skeleton. The sky is tinted the pale rose of dawn and the air smells of jasmine in bloom. It is precisely the sort of heaven Castiel had spent centuries wandering through. And yet, in this vessel, with this body, it feels blissfully new.   

 

The serenity of the place is pierced by Raphael’s voice. “Tell me, Castiel. What do you know of the charge you have so eagerly signed up to put your life on the line for?” The archangel’s voice was severe, leaving Castiel to wonder if human ears were more perceptible to his derisive tone, if it had always been there in his older brother’s voice.  
  
Castiel hesitates, ashamed of his impulsivity, wishing to appeal to a sense of decorum or duty. But if he was being really, truly honest, from the first moment he heard the name _Dean Winchester_ , his grace felt … charged. It was unlike anything he had ever experienced. As if his very essence were designed for _this task_ for _that man_ , as if a switch long-neglected finally was flipped on, Castiel’s purpose now clear.  
  
Lacking a response, he poses a question with one of his own. “What makes him righteous?” Castiel asks, his voice tentative.  
  
“I am so glad you asked that, Castiel.” The archangel pauses, as if he fears he has muttered the wrong underling’s name. “The truth is - I do not know. I excel at many things, but I am not built like you, brother. I never quite could understand why Father so deeply loved these particular playthings. To me he is not unlike the rest of the …” Raphael pauses, his newly embodied brother causing him to censor himself, to refrain from using one of his many slurs for human beings. “Not unlike the rest of his kind. But you - you have this … connection. To them. I can see it written in your grace. You are not like the rest of us. If you were able to see the man, I think - I know _you_ would know why _he_ deserves to be saved.”

 

Castiel drags a deep breath in. To be different, to be special, to possess sentimentality - these were deformities as far as his brethren was concerned. But try as he might to convince himself, what he felt within his grace did not feel like weakness. “Are you suggesting I -”

 

“I am _suggesting_ nothing. I possess the power to send you back to watch his life unfold. I intend to do just that. Of course, all of the usual rules would apply.” Raphael pauses, as if to make sure Castiel was intently listening to each word he spoke. “You will move through his world without notice. Without the power to intervene, Castiel, hard as it may be. His three decades have had their fair share of toil. He must endure it all. When he dies, you will return with what you need to lead the rest of them.” The archangel kneels alongside the seraphim, whose hand has absent-mindedly begun to play with the blue silk slung around his vessel’s neck. “Can you do what we are asking of you, Castiel?”

 

No sooner has Castiel nervously nodded his head than he finds himself catapulted into the past, to a hospital room in Lawrence, Kansas on a cold winter night.

 

\-----

 

There are two people in the darkened room. One is a man whose hair matches the oil stains on his jacket, slumped over in a rust-orange chair, his hand intertwined with another’s, the patient in the bed. The woman, Castiel presumes, is his wife - her blonde curls almost golden in the moonlight. As the two manage to get a few moments of sleep together, Castiel walks to the bedside table, looking at the newspaper atop it. _January 24, 1979_ , the paper reads. _This is the day he was born._ _These - these are his parents_. It seems like mere seconds later that the sun is peaking through the blinds, a nurse tenderly carrying a newborn wrapped in a soft blue blanket into the room.

 

“Have you two settled on a name?” she asks, her voice sweet like honey. The new mother nods as she takes the baby into her arms, whispering softly as he sleeps. _“Hello, Dean.”_

 

\-----

 

Raphael had neglected to inform Castiel that his travels would be akin to flipping through a photo album, being flung from one memory to another, often out of order. Dean was an infant and then a man, a teen then a child. It was up to Castiel to write the narrative - to piece together these things to come to understand the hero. There were memories in which he wanted to stay longer - like the one when Dean was three and insisted to sing all of his favourite Christmas songs to Mary’s stomach, to teach them to his baby brother. Moments where he bathed in Dean’s hefty laughter at his own joke. Impromptu singalongs with nothing more than an open expanse of road and a brother to chastise him about his unabashed tone-deafness. Those were moments that demonstrated to Castiel there were feelings better than being calm and content.

 

There were others he cherished as significant - how Dean’s stomach rumbled as he passed the last of the Lucky Charms to Sam. The broken bones and bruises he gladly suffered for the sake of strangers to hold onto their chances at happiness. The necklace he never took off. Moments that spoke to everything that was good about humanity - sacrifice, compassion, love. All characteristics, Castiel recognized, Dean Winchester seemed to have a ceaseless supply of.

 

Then there was the moment that utterly, fundamentally changed Castiel. It was an average afternoon in autumn of 2005 when his suspicions of his transformation were confirmed. The brothers were on a case in Wisconsin, investigating a lake whose waters were rapidly claiming a series of victims. A boy sat quietly on a park bench, a boy who’d been so thoroughly hurt he no longer wished to use words. And yet Dean did not let that stop him from connecting, from caring. Armed with nothing but a crayon and construction paper, he spoke to the boy -  on his terms. A stick-figure portrait of his family - father, little brother and mother - as if she was still there. The crude characters did not reveal a latent artistic skill, but rather, the profound gentleness of Dean’s soul. How tenderly he tried to reassure the young boy that he too knew of loss: that it was okay to continue living.

 

It was in that moment of witness that Castiel recognized that his grace, his being, his heart - it no longer belonged to heaven or himself. He was wholly and completely bound to another.

 

There were other memories - many others - from which Castiel wanted to turn, to run, to flee. And to take the righteous man with him. The terror in Dean’s breath as he ran down the stairs, clutching an infant Sammy close to his chest, the flames still burning at his back. The field behind the motel in Montana when he was six - where he first pulled the trigger - hitting that tin can square center. The smile Dean would have when John called him a “good little soldier.” Castiel didn’t know a smile could crush him. The kiss of despair with the dark-haired demon at that crossroads in South Dakota.

 

Then came the last memory. Blood pooled along gnashed flannel as Dean helplessly succumbed to the invisible menace that was ripping him apart. He expels his last breath, his screams turning to silence as Castiel is pulled back towards heaven. Once again within that white room he pants, with loss and anger and desperation, his eyes clouded with tears, fists balled tightly. Raphael, for a moment, seems unsure how to proceed, given Castiel’s state. “Did you get your answer?” he asks, a perceptible nervousness to his voice.

 

The heart of his vessel beats with such force Castiel worries momentarily about the endurance of his sternum. His response makes its way through gritted teeth, ragged and resolute.

 

“Tell Michael I am ready.”

  
  



	2. In Your Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter I think serves as a nice little companion to the first. Castiel has witnessed Dean's entire life and his death. He has committed himself to saving Dean's soul from Hell. What would he find when he got there?
> 
> I am writing each of these chapters to stand up on their own - adding on if I feel like I can do that in an interesting way. This is one headcanon amongst many I want to explore.
> 
> I am not sure if the violence described here is graphic enough to warrant that archive tag. But yes, this partially takes place as Dean is in hell, so it's a bit bloody.

_“You and I, it’s as though we have been taught to kiss in heaven and sent down to earth together, to see if we know what we were taught.”_

_-Boris Pasternak_ , _Dr. Zhviago_

 

           What was supposed to be a controlled descent feels like a free fall. The tips of Castiel’s feathers singe, filling the air around him with a perverse crackling, like the embers over a campfire. But the angel remains steadfast on his plummet through Heaven and Earth towards Hell. The tumultuous tumble ends with the garrison’s crash landing, one thud after another as their vessels pound against the ground. Their arrival is not unanticipated; the gates are heavily guarded by the worst Hell can muster up. Castiel does not hesitate to lead the charge. He hacks his way through the hordes of demons, his blade plunging into anything and anyone that stood between him and his destination. Soon its pristine silver is coated in thick crimson.

 

           It is dark here and Castiel’s eyes strain to see even a foot in front of him. Until the darkness is pierced. For a moment, a flash of green shines, far off in the distance. But like a candle on a stormy night, that light soon extinguishes.

 

           For weeks, Castiel continues to fight blindly through the Inferno, that brief glimmer of green that belonged to Dean and Dean alone enough to steel his resolve. He endures the worst Hell can throw at him, none more so than the bodies of his compatriots over which he must step. To fulfill his mission. To get to him.

 

           It is on a Thursday that Castiel, trenchcoat caked in dirt and blood, finds himself finally within reach.

 

            _Dean_.

 

           The hunter’s hands are painted scarlet. A plea is expelled from lungs that strain to bring forth enough air to form a single word. That bruised and battered victim begs Dean to stop. It is as if that damned soul had taken the words right out of Castiel’s mouth. _Too late_. _Too late to prevent the First Seal from breaking. The first domino has tipped. Too late to stop him._

 

            _But not too late to save him._ Castiel reaches his hand to the broken man. He clutches his shoulder, lifts him and flees.

 

\-----

 

           When those who survived finally reach Heaven, they are immediately attended to by their brothers and sisters. The angelic version of triage - grave injuries healed first, minor wounds and wing damage dealt with afterwards. Castiel’s vessel too is in need of care, but he refuses to spend even a minute on himself. He carries Dean’s limp body across the threshold, leaving soiled and bloodied footprints along the pristine white marble of Heaven’s halls.

 

           The physical damage to Dean’s body is no laughing matter - rare is the expanse of flesh not adorned by a scar or wound. But those things would be fairly simple for Castiel’s grace to repair. No, what was really concerning was the state of Dean’s soul. Shattered by some thirty years of torture in Hell, yes - but warped also by thirty years of hurt whose origin was earthly.

 

           Castiel looks at a body tormented. _Still beautiful._  He runs his fingers over the freckles masked by blood; he studies the curve of Dean’s legs and the slope of Dean’s shoulders. He longs to look into Dean’s eyes, heavily lidded. For in those eyes the angel saw everything that was worth adoring about his Father’s creation.

 

           As Castiel tends to Dean, he considers removing all of the painful memories, all the self-destructive habits, all of the deep self-loathing. To give him ways to cope with grief and guilt that he can’t find at the bottom of a bottle. But as much as he wants Dean to be happy, content, angst-free, he knows those aspects of his personality are, for better or worse, part of what make him _him_. Part of what make him a hero. And so he makes no alterations as he he fuses back together all that was reduced to rubble. His lets his grace flow through Dean Winchester, worshipping the structure of his soul on a subatomic level. When the last abrasion clears, the last shades of maroon and purple return to that perfect tanned hue, Castiel braces himself for the hardest thing his eternal spirit has ever had to do.

 

           Resting a hand softly on Dean’s shoulder, on the place their bodies had first met together as one, Castiel whispers goodbye.

 

           And just like that, Dean wakes six feet under in that field in Pontiac without even the memory of the angel’s name. Castiel waits until he sees Dean emerge from the soil, bursting forth with life, his resurrection no less miraculous than Lazarus’s. It is only then Castiel goes home - the ascent is heavy.

 

\-----

 

           The soft patter of Jimmy Novak’s well-worn leather shoes tap across the massive corridor. Michael and Raphael are waiting.

 

           “Castiel,” Michael mutters, taking in the angel’s still bloodied and broken visage, extending himself towards his little brother, healing him of every mark he had gained fighting through hell and back.

 

           Every wound but one.

 

           When his vessel was back to its issued condition, the devout man is returned to Pontiac. Returned to Amelia and Claire, to that home on Westview Drive. Returned to selling ads on AM radio.

 

           As he begins to speak of how the mission unfolded, Castiel barely manages to suppress the wish that he too was in Pontiac.

 

           “We got to him - we just - we were not in time. I managed to rescue him - he is back on Earth - but - we were just too late. The First Seal has been broken.” The words pour from Castiel’s mouth like a confession. And in a way, they are - he blames himself for Dean’s ruin. If only he had gotten to that green light in time.

 

           Michael lets the seraphim finish divulging - patient through the deluge of details. Never one prone to sentimentality, he has no means by which to comfort Castiel. But he can disabuse him of the belief that he was at fault for Dean’s fall. “You executed our plan to the best of your ability. And you pulled his soul from hell. That is more than a consolation prize. I believe that Dean can still be a powerful ally to our cause. To heaven’s.”

 

           Raphael amends Michael’s claim. “ _With_ guidance and direction. With the right … influence.” Raphael pauses, as if to make it seem as if he was scanning a list of applicants in his head. Even if the sole candidate was the one immediately before him. In a measured voice, he declares Castiel fit for the position. “At this point, you know him as well as any of his kin. I think that you can persuade him. Convince him. Of his role. Of his duty.”

 

           Castiel hears the archangels’ words, their rationale, but how they spin the story doesn’t matter to him. For when the assignment is offered - the privilege of being part of of Dean’s life - to act as participant rather than observer - Castiel is buzzing. A pulsating warmth floods his senses. Intoxicated by this sensation, this feeling so overwhelming that he is nearly convinced he is still embodied. He admits none of this to his brothers, feigning detachment as he asks when he is to begin.

 

           “Go forth now, brother. I doubt he is far from where you left him - his kind are an unbearably slow species,” Raphael smirks.

 

           It is an order Castiel is all too eager to obey. He descends towards that empty gas station in the unremarkable Illinois town, rehearsing his hello the whole way.

 

           The two brothers of the highest rank at last turn towards one another. A sinister smile creeps across Raphael’s form.

 

           “You need not indulge in his gullibility, Raphael,” Michael reprimands, ever the pragmatist. “His actions - his leadership - he should be commended for his bravery. It almost makes me think we should...”

 

Raphael interrupts, clearly annoyed with his sibling’s reproach. He huffs out his rejoinder.

 

           “Oh brother, not all of us possess your sense of decorum and duty. Some of us know how to relish the small things in life. Castiel finding his purpose - living up to that peculiar nature of his unrealized all these years - it’s adorable. A most wonderful pawn if I’ve ever seen one. So I’m sorry, but I for one am pleased to see our plan falling into place precisely as we wanted. The righteous man shed blood, the First Seal has been broken. It is imminent after all these years.  And your true vessel is being protected. By one who would sacrifice himself a thousand times over to spare Dean Winchester a paper cut. If that isn’t worth celebrating - I don’t know what is.”

 

           Michael sighs a long, tired breath - the sort only one who has been around since the stars themselves were born could muster. “Beware of your pride brother.” He looms over Raphael as if to remind him that he was not superior to all within Heaven. “For remember where pride landed Lucifer. He need not be there alone.”

 

\-----

 

           The first time Castiel tries to speak to Dean, the words are lost amongst the shattered glass of broken windows. But if he could repeat them later at a lower decibel, they would have sounded something like this: _it’s okay Dean. This is real. You are safe. You are protected. You are guarded._

 

           The next time Castiel is called to his side - it is an unmitigated disaster. He tried to warn her and he tried to flee - but Pamela Barnes was nothing if not a persistent woman. Used to getting what she wanted. He did not mean her harm. But if he is being wholly, truly honest - the first time he hears Dean say his name - he himself feels undone by that sound.

 

           Castiel tried one last time to seek Dean out without a vessel. That ended with Dean near tears in his hotel room, the mirrored ceiling above broken into more pieces than his previously fractured soul.

 

           The third time was a charm. Castiel reluctantly acknowledged that he would once again need to call on the services of Jimmy Novak, should he ever want to have a conversation that didn’t involve Dean’s eardrums rupturing.

 

           The sky was dark and the air was still when Castiel heard it. The invocation. Dean calling to him rather than simply existing as a force to which the angel was irrevocably bound. The winds begin to whirl into that old wooden barn, adorned with the markings of a dozen different beliefs, all singing one song in harmony: protect us against Castiel.

 

           Dean needn’t have worried, for the angel could not imagine a universe in which he would want to disturb a hair upon the hunter’s head. His feet tread forward, through rain-kissed grass, ready to make his entrance. Ready to say hello for the very first time.

 

           And when Dean and Castiel’s eyes meet for the first time?

  
           Sparks fly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have multiple headcanons regarding Cas saving Dean. This is the soulmates one. Of Cas being in love with Dean prior to us seeing him for the first time in "Lazarus Rising."
> 
> I also really wish that the series would have fleshed out the archangels' nefarious plan for bringing on the Apocalypse a little more. Holding them a bit more accountable for it. So that's what this attempts to do too, I suppose.


End file.
